


Prouvaire's Ghosts

by FixaIdea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Era, Friendship, Gen, Ghosts, Horror, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 10:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8010526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FixaIdea/pseuds/FixaIdea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Jean Prouvaire went ghost-hunting and one time he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A new friend

1.

Jehan sat back against the gravestone with a contented sigh. The night sky was clear but the sudden cold was beginning to conjure up thin trails of mist on the ground – a perfect atmosphere. Even if he didn’t succeed in his endeavour (that is to lay eyes upon an actual ghost) he wouldn’t have come in vain.

 

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he caught some movement. Slowly, carefully, he turned to look and indeed, a tall, dark figure was approaching. His heart sped up – maybe today was the day?

 

…But then the figure stepped on a fallen branch, which cracked loudly under (presumably) his foot. Ah, well. Human then. Jehan stood to take a closer look.

 

That must have been the moment the other spotted him because he let out a high-pitched screech and fell back into the undergrowth. Jehan carefully crept closer, sliding between the headstones, watching the other as he sat back up.

 

For a good second they stood suspiciously squinting at each other. His new acquaintance was a tall, broad man, his otherwise carefully crafted coiffe ruined by the leaves sticking out of it.

 

‘You’re alive, right?’ he asked finally.

 

Jehan raised an eyebrow.

 

‘As of yet, I would say I am. I was hoping to witness those who are not, but you look a bit too solid to be a ghost.’

‘I should hope so’ the other grumbled, dusting himself off ‘Where you are chasing the dead, I was rather hoping to avoid the living.’

‘Oh?’

‘See, the whole thing started as a mere difference in literary tastes. There was this one fellow, and all I wanted to get across was what a stinking pile of garbage classicism was but ah, things got a bit passionate?’

‘As they should, when such things are concerned’ Jehan said solemnly ‘I expect he called the police on you?’

‘He did, the coward, even though his nose was barely bleeding.’

 

Jehan tutted and held out his hand.

 

‘Prouvaire, pleased to meet you!’

‘Bahorel, the pleasure is mine!’


	2. Azincourt

Jehan leant against the wall of the carriage, staring out of its grimy window. He could do that for hours on end without getting bored – after all the scenery was ever changing, and served as fresh fuel for his future artistic endeavours. He could of course (and often have) conjure up completely imaginary worlds to write about, but to see the exact colour the sunset painted the meadows, the way the mist gathered in the forests they crossed and to study the exact way the houses of tiny villages huddled together was still something that would help him in his art. After all, how could you paint a picture if you had no paintbrush? How could you conjure up images of beauty if you had no idea what the reader was supposed to see?

 

A loud snore from inside the carriage broke him out of his reverie. He blinked, adjusting to the relative darkness – and oh, it was just him and Courfeyrac left. The others they’ve been sharing the carriage with must have gotten off at some point, without Jehan even noticing.

 

They were headed north, to Calais, where Courfeyrac had some business to attend to. He needed a companion because he was meant to retrieve the belongings of some distant relative and he felt it would be both safer and easier to do so with the help of a friend. Prouvaire volunteered with surprising enthusiasm before Bahorel, Grantaire or any other of their more imposing, physically stronger friends could even hope to get in a word edgewise.

 

Courfeyrac naively took this merely as him being keen to help a friend out – only to discover Jehan’s real reasons when they discussed the route they should take. Jehan was adamant they should take the carriage that stopped overnight at Azincourt. He was planning to spend said night out on the ancient battlefield, hunting for the ghosts of soldiers long gone.

 

Courfeyrac came rather close to sending him home and asking for Grantaire instead.

 

After some dramatic sighing from both parties he relented and agreed not only to take Prouvaire with him but to go explore the battlefield with him. With all that said and done they set out on their journey.

 

Which was, at least for today drawing to an end as they rattled past the first houses of the village of Azincourt.

 

Having eaten some bread and cheese on the way, Jehan and Courfeyrac didn’t feel the need to linger for long in the run-down inn. Not twenty minutes after Jehan shook Courfeyrac awake they were already on their way to the nearby fields.

 

They made their way towards the village of Tramcourt – as the actual battlefield was supposedly located between that and Azincourt. The place was now covered with neat fields of corn and patches of grass for grazing.

 

‘Are you quite sure we aren’t trespassing?’ asked Courfeyrac. Night was falling, it was becoming harder and harder to see where they were going.

‘We most certainly are’ said Jehan dreamily ‘But so are these farmers, growing their grain on the tombs of the dead.’

 

Courfeyrac pulled a face.

 

‘I don’t expect the dead to set their hounds on us though.’

‘You don’t believe we will see anything, do you?’

‘No my dearest Prouvaire, I’m afraid not. In fact I think we should…’

 

He fell silent suddenly, stopping dead in his tracks.

 

There were torches ahead of them. A good dozen of torches and shadows of men. Jehan strained his eyes – and – _yes_ – he caught the distinctive glimmer of light on metal. These shades were, without a doubt, wearing armour.

 

He flashed a victorious grin at Courfeyrac. He couldn’t make out his friend’s expression in the gloom but after a moment Courfeyrac took his arm.

 

‘Come’ he said ‘Let us not disturb these fine gentlemen in whatever they’re playing at.’

‘But surely you must not think these people living? Have you no respect? Look at them Courfeyrac, we are getting a glimpse of the past!’

 

Courfeyrac snorted, pulling Jehan away from the scene.

 

‘We’re getting a glimpse of a funny bunch playing dress-up in the middle of a field.’

 

They made their way back to the inn in silence – grumpy on Jehan’s and quietly amused on Courfeyrac’s side. Once they settled in at a table in the inn’s wine shop Courfeyrac sought to placate his friend with some brandy.

 

‘I’m still saying they were ghosts’ Jehan grumbled under his breath ‘What on Earth would bring a group of men to…’

 

He couldn’t finish, because at that exact moment the inn’s door opened and a large group of men filed through it. All dressed in tinfoil armour or chainmail made of grey, heavy knitwear, brandishing painted toy swords.

 

Jehan felt his mouth drop open. He kept his stare fixed at the men – he wouldn’t look at Courfeyrac, he didn’t need to see his grin.

 

‘Well, hello there, my good fellows’ his friend called out ‘Are you going to a dress-up ball? If so point me to it, let us go together!’

‘Ah, you may laugh, sir’ said the man whose cheap but carefully painted regalia singled out as the impersonator of Charles d’Albret, the commander of the French army ‘But this is a serious business. We are actors. We put on plays for the people to teach them about our history.’

‘Oh, that is indeed a noble endeavour!’ Courfeyrac said, visibly intrigued now, pulling up his chair to the actors’ table ‘You were practicing then?’

‘So we were’ said ‘Charles’.

‘We aren’t actually performing here, we are on our way to Hesdin, but I’m asking you, how could we have missed the opportunity to perform our play at the actual scene of the battle?’

‘It must have been quite the spiritual experience’ said Jehan who, despite his disappointment, found himself intrigued.

‘That it was, certainly’ ‘Charles’ agreed with an enthusiastic smile. He leant back in his chair and went on ‘I always say a country cannot move forward unless she knows her past – so that is what we are trying to teach her.’

 

By the end of the night Courfeyrac charmed the troupe into planning a tour to Paris and a promise to keep in touch. Jehan, for his part almost managed to forgive them for accidentally leading him on. Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a story set in France, with French-speaking characters. I'm not going to spell it Agincourt, especially since there IS a place called Agincourt in France, but that's somewhere around Nancy and has nothing to do with the battle.


	3. The Doll

3.

The doll, the merchant assured him, was definitely haunted. He handed her over with a meaningful look and a conspiratory nod.

 

‘She was found in an abandoned flat in the outskirts of Paris a good many years ago’ he explained in a dramatic whisper ‘No owner could keep her since.’

 

Jehan listened with barely controlled excitement as he took the doll in hand. It was obviously old and has seen rough times, but it was an elegant little thing of excellent quality. He paid the merchant and hauled her up in his arms.

 

When he got home he sat the doll down on his desk and pulled a stack of drafts in front of him. After all he promised Enjolras the final text for a pamphlet for the next meeting tomorrow and anyway, he couldn’t reasonably expect his new purchase to do anything interesting right away.

 

The doll was sitting peacefully beside him, and continued to do so until Jehan, satisfied with his work, retreated for the night.

 

He didn’t sleep well. Every time he closed his eyes he could hear the crying of a small child and the sound of running footsteps, drawing ever further but never fading completely.

 

When he woke up, distressed and with a sense of fear that wasn’t entirely his own he found the papers on his desk scattered. Raising an eyebrow he quickly got out of bed and started to reorganise them. Nothing was missing or smudged, not too badly anyway, but as the window was firmly closed there seemed to be no natural explanation for their disarray.

 

‘Did you do that?’ he asked, turning to the doll.

 

He expected no answer – and didn’t receive one. The little toy continued to sit on his desk, harmless and ordinary. Jehan hummed, packed away his papers and books and set out for the University.

 

He returned home late in the night, having spent a couple of hours drinking with Bahorel way after the official meeting was over. He examined his flat carefully. The door was locked, just as he’d left it. The dishes in the kitchen, his books on the shelves and his desk were in their respective places, exactly where he’d left them. The doll was sitting on the bed.

 

Definitely not where he’d left her.

 

Jehan felt a slow grin spread on his face.

 

‘You really are haunted, aren’t you?’

 

The doll said nothing. That night Jehan left her on the bed instead of exiling her to the desk.

 

The dreams were different this time: he saw a garden. It was squeezed between high walls, overgrown, but with a unique, wild beauty of its own. He woke with an inexplicable sense of longing.

 

Things would continue this way for the next couple of days: the doll would make its presence known in some obvious but overall harmless way and Jehan would continue to dream about the garden. The only instance when the doll actually threw a tantrum – broke the oil lamp and completely rearranged the furniture in the flat – was when Jehan left her out in the living room for the night, instead of letting her sit on the bed.

 

‘She just doesn’t like to be alone, it seems’ he explained one day to Combeferre and Bahorel as they made their way back home from a meeting. This time they met up with a group of potential new allies and their trip took them to a part of Paris Jehan didn’t usually frequent.

 

‘You could take her with you to University’ Combeferre suggested ‘Maybe that way she’d realise you care about her, that she belongs with you now and cease with the nightmares.’

 

This drew a shudder from Bahorel.

 

‘I for one would do a million things to prove my Romantic affiliations but by God, carrying around a cursed doll is not one of them.’

 

Jehan opened his mouth to answer – and stopped dead in his tracks. Bahorel, noticing too late, bumped into him and had to catch him to keep him from toppling over.

 

‘What…?’

‘Th-the garden!’ Jehan said, gasping, pointing at the garden of one of the houses.

‘What of it?’

‘It’s… it’s THAT garden! The exact same garden I keep dreaming about!’

‘Ohh go quick’ cooed Combeferre, seizing Jehan’s hand ‘Go fetch the doll!’

 

Jehan shot off without a second thought. It took him some time to find his way back, as he’d forgotten to note the name of the street and wasn’t familiar with the neighbourhood, but when he did he found his friends waiting patiently, exactly where he left them.

 

‘Ah, so you would be the famous haunted doll’ Combeferre murmured as he examined the toy ‘Let’s put her inside, shall we?’

 

They placed her just inside the fence and retreated to a doorway where they could see the doll but were hard to spot from the garden themselves.

 

And they waited. Nothing happened for a good two hours but right when Bahorel started to fidget, growing impatient, a pretty young woman emerged from the house.

In truth, she might have been out for a longer time, but the thick vegetation made it impossible to see the inside of the garden. She only became visible as she approached the fence.

 

The three friends were craning their necks and all but tumbled out of the doorway in their efforts to see better when she finally spotted the doll.

 

For a long moment she stood still, clearly surprised. Then slowly, with her eyes widening in shock, she brought up her hands to cover her mouth.

 

And then she lounged forward and snatched up the doll.

 

‘Catherine!’ she shrieked in delight as she spun the doll around and clutched her to her chest.

 

Jehan suddenly felt a strong sense of warmth and gratitude wash over him.

 

The doll was home.


	4. Guest from a long time ago, far, far away

4.

Jehan sighed, staring at the spirit board which, despite his best efforts, remained stubbornly unresponsive. He’s found the board at the flea market. It was a real bargain, it even came with a little leaflet with instructions in it.

 

The only problem was that it was, so far, entirely ineffective.

 

Impatient now, he pulled the leaflet in front of him again – maybe last time he mispronounced something? Left out a word? Frowning in concentration, articulating slowly, loudly, deliberately, with extra precision he read out the incantation again.

 

To no use.

 

With a disappointed huff he tossed the leaflet aside and reached to put out the candle…

 

There was a gust of wind. He looked up.

 

There was a young man standing in front of him – obviously a ghost as his body was transparent and glowing blue. He wore what looked like an odd cross between a monk’s habit and a bathrobe – and an abjectly confused expression.

 

‘…The hell am I?!’ spoke the apparition.

‘C-come again?’

 

‘Where the hell am I? This doesn’t look like Ach-To – or wherever the little idiot is hiding. Well okay…’ he went on, seemingly oblivious to the way Jehan was gaping at him ‘I’ve no idea what the blasted place is supposed to look like but I’m pretty sure this isn’t it.’

 

Jehan gulped.

 

‘You. Ah, you are in Paris, sir. I did not mean to deter you…’

‘Never heard of it. Also, pretty sure you didn’t’ said the spectre, shrugging ’I’ve been trying to get through either to him or that raving asshat grandson of mine but I keep getting lost. Last time I appeared in a castle full of magical children in a place called… wossisname… ‘Scotland’ or something.’

 

At this point Jehan was trying to decide whether it was him who consumed too much alcohol or if it was his guest who died drunk out of his mind and carried on his delusions into the afterlife. After some brief introspection he ruled out the former possibility.

 

‘So…’ he started, carefully ‘You say you are looking for… someone. That someone or your grandson.’

‘Yeah, my son. It’s uh… pretty messed up, but long story short my grandson screwed up big time and he thinks it’s all his fault and he just. Gave up. Not like him at all, if you ask me, but I guess everyone has their limits.’

‘Surely there must be something said about his parenting skills no?’ Jehan asked, mostly just to say something.

‘Wha-? Nope, not _his_ son, my _daughter’s_ son. Luke’s nephew. Luke’s my son. It’s him I’m trying to find.’

‘Oh, I see.’ said Jehan. He didn’t, not at all, but it seemed like the kind of thing one should be saying in a situation such as this.

‘Well, I wish you good luck, sir.’

‘Thanks’ the ghost said, but instead of fading away he plopped down on Jehan’s settee. ‘Mind if I stay a while? I’m kinda tired and anyway, I’m not sure what I should say to either of them that doesn’t sound TOO hypocritical.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. See I uh. Also messed up when I was alive. Big time. It’s a long story.’

 

It really was. Long and confusing and fantastic, and took the ghost till dawn to tell it all. Jehan, for his part, still wasn’t sure whether it was all a very elaborate hallucination or if he really was listening to the accounts of someone from a completely different plane of existence – a completely different world – but all in all he found the story of the Skywalker family very Romantic. He considered composing an epic poem about it.


	5. The Catacombs

Enjolras, as Jehan learned shortly after making his acquaintance, did not believe in ghosts and had little patience for those who did.

 

‘Do not waste your time on the dead’ he lectured Jehan when on one occasion he caught him fiddling with a spirit board in the Corinth ‘It is the living that need your attention. Do not waste belief on spirits.’

 

On one hand it was understandable – Enjolras has always been pragmatic, only concerned with the problem at hand and the means to overcome it. But on the other hand he only ever lectured or corrected his other friends on their ways he personally found unsavoury when they actively hindered the Cause. He paid no mind to Grantaire’s drunken ramblings or Courfeyrac’s love affairs… Or indeed Jehan’s and Bahorel’s Romantic exploits.

 

Unless, it seemed, when they involved the world of spirits. The one time Jehan received a look so withering and full of disdain from him he actually ran home in tears was when he pulled out a deck of Tarot cards after a meeting.

 

Jehan of course learned to work his way around Enjolras’ distaste for the supernatural. Most of Les Amis simply weren’t interested in such things so Jehan kept it out of their sight. He would sometimes discuss this interest of his with Bahorel and Combeferre who were generally a grateful audience.

 

 

None of this mattered now.

 

In hindsight he should have taken either of those two with him when one day, on a whim, he decided to go further into the catacombs than ever before.

 

But then, instead of getting hopelessly lost all by himself he would have dragged down another person with him.

 

Everything started out just fine, he’s even seen some inexplicable specks of light in the abandoned tunnels and he’s found a skull with some very interesting injuries he planned to ask Joly about. The trouble started when he felt like he’s done enough exploring and tried to return to the surface.

 

He must have taken the wrong turn somehow because very soon he found himself in a place he had no recollection of whatsoever. When this dawned on him, to his misfortune, for a moment he completely lost his nerve and darted off into the darkness in a flight of blind panic.

 

He stumbled and fell face first into a heap of bones. He tried desperately to regain control over his breathing and to stop the tears that were now streaming freely from his eyes.

 

To no avail.

 

He’s lost his track of time as well as his way. For all he knew he could have been down here for days. Or maybe just a couple of hours, he couldn’t tell. Now he sat, exhausted, his back against the damp wall, staring into the unforgiving darkness beyond the feeble circle of light from his small lamp.

 

Which was rapidly running out of oil.

 

He never said goodbye to his friends. He will never see them again.

 

This thought, more than the prospect of his own demise ever could, sent him into a fresh bout of despair. He curled up, tucking his head between his knees and began to sob in earnest.

 

And then he felt the hand. Cold, hard fingers wrapped themselves around his arm and yanked him upwards.

 

Jehan went, paralysed with fear, even his scream of terror stuck in his throat.

 

He looked up at the source of the unknown force – only to lock eyes with an extremely angry Enjolras.

 

‘What did I tell you?!’ he hissed, pulling at Jehan’s arm none too gently ‘Did I not tell you? Why can you not leave the dead well enough alone?’

 

‘Why would you waste your time on them like this?’ he went on, fuming as he turned and dragged Jehan after him ‘Crawling in into this nasty hole, what the ever-loving hell were you thinking? What on Earth, Prouvaire? No, don’t bother to answer.’

 

Jehan was planning no such thing, mostly because he was too confused to formulate anything resembling a coherent sentence.

 

‘… Poking around this nasty pit as if it were of a playground for children. Fitting it would be, for you overgrown children, you and that stubborn oaf Bahorel. I swear one of these days you will get yourself killed, you will…’

 

Jehan bilked, the only semi-conscious action he was capable of a he stumbled after the chief.

 

‘…can’t take my eyes off of you for five damn minutes, a bunch of overgrown children I swear…’

 

Enjolras’ rage calmed into a low, hissing fury and melted into a grumbling litany of lecturing Prouvaire and generally questioning his capacity of existing as an adult. Finally they reached a manhole and Enjolras all but bodily hauled Prouvaire up the ladder and out into the open.

 

Once safely out on the street Prouvaire dusted himself off and turned to thank Enjolras who was occupied by hauling the cover back on the manhole. Before he could open his mouth the man rounded on him again.

 

‘Do not waste belief on spirits, Jehan. It only encourages them.’

 

With that he left a speechless Jehan alone and stalked off into the night.

 

It only occurred to Jehan hours later, when he was lying in bed awake, that he never told Enjolras – or anyone else for the matter – where he was planning to go.


	6. Epilogue

+1.

The man was moving quietly in the shadows of the cemetery… Jehan crept in close behind him, to keep an eye on him. Who was he? What did he want? There was something off about him…

 

Jehan’s suspicion was confirmed when he spotted the shovel in the stranger’s hand. _A grave robber_.

 

Angry now, Jehan slid around him, went ahead and hid behind the broken door of a nearby crypt. The man kept advancing, fishing out a crowbar from a pouch he was carrying. He reached the crypt…

 

The door flew wide open with a mournful screech and Jehan floated out from the dark depth of the crypt in all his transparent glory. The man stared up at him, thunderstruck, shovel and crowbar clattering to the ground. He stood frozen to the ground, mouth agape but he wouldn’t budge.

 

Jehan frowned and decided to enhance his performance by growling and reaching out a pale hand for the poor fellow. That did the trick, the man turned tails and fled with an ear-splitting scream.

 

Jehan crossed his arms, nodding to himself in satisfaction.

 

One day he would follow his friends of course – but right now spending his time Dramatically Lingering in cemeteries, occasionally rattling doors and messing with objects (and watching the faces of the living when confronted with his antics) was way too much fun.


End file.
